The Man
by MrTails
Summary: John makes his way in the world by being dominated. John Watson as the submissive in Asib.
1. The Man

The Man

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what he was doing. Mycroft had nearly begged (in a very Mycroft way, of course) but there wasn't actually any danger going on. John Watson, or better known as The Man, wasn't threatening to use the photos, he wasn't trying to blackmail anyone, and the only reason the government even knew he had them was because of 'sources'. Maybe, in some sort of context, he was a threat because he refused to give them over. He didn't deny having them, he simply refused to give them back. These pictures were very dangerous, as Sherlock had seen, and if he so choose to blackmail this 'very important person', he could destroy any amount of government life. Sherlock wasn't particularly interested in that, but rather he was interested in this man.

What he did was strange and foreign to Sherlock. He willingly submitted to absolute strangers. He would admit to things that weren't even true and no one seemed to care. It didn't make any sense. He'd prepped himself up nice and neat, a disguise that wasn't exactly a disguise, and approached the place of business. He rang the doorbell several times but before he could even manage out his bit, a voice beat him to it.

"You're early." The man said over the com. The door cracked open slightly, then parted completely to let him in. The building was new and clean, a little too white for what happened beyond the bedroom walls. The man, just a few inches shorter than him, glanced over him, but made comment. This man probably wasn't who he thought he was.

"This was, Mr. Holmes." Or perhaps he was. Sherlock dropped his act instantly. If he was expected, it was rather pointless to put anymore work into it. To be perfectly honest, he hadn't put a lot of work into it in the first place. He needed to get in and nothing more. If he'd really wanted to fool them, he could do a better job than a few bruises. He followed the large eared man into the room beneath the stairs. He was met first with the bareback of a stranger. The Man, obviously.

His skin was torn and scared by four, no five, different hands. They seemed to be mostly made by leather, a whip he would confidently say. Some of them were not nearly as skillful as the others and they sat on the pale skin in layers, shinning with the salve being spread there. The blonde head didn't face him but rather remained calmly rested against the chin rest. He was nude, giving full view of his back, butt, shoulders, neck, and the calves and feet. There were raw marks around his ankle and throat, and rope marks on his upper arms.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes." The Man hummed softly. His assistant quietly went back to work apply the sweet smelling gel over the recently made marks. The marks were easy to read. Left handed, married, smoker, most likely a desk worker of some sort; visited Tuesday. Right handed, over six foot, first time, very interested; visited Tuesday. Right handed, skilled handler, deeply in love with The Man; visited yesterday. There were plenty of others, but making a list of his clients didn't prove useful.

"If you know who I am, you know why I'm here." Sherlock responded. The Man offered a small 'mm'.

"I do. I don't know why, but I do. Henry, go let Mr. Holmes' friend in." He waved a hand off to his assistant and he quietly left just as he had come. Sherlock could spot the marks on his wrist and several other marks on his lower arms and hands.

"Would you care for a try, Mr. Holmes? On the house." He dipped his back, creating an arch away from him. The scars on his back glistened in an almost welcoming way. It was a tempting offer for an assortment of reasons, but for now, he decided against it. It wouldn't make Watson tell him where the photos were.

"Thank you, but no."

"Too bad." The Man pushed himself away from the chair, his fingers gracing over the arm rest before he stood. Cream colored eyes met periwinkle blue eyes. His face was completely unscarred, but that was all he could see. Sherlock tilted his head curiously, but he couldn't read him. His scars told stories of countless people, but the man was as blank and unreadable as, well, nothing Sherlock had seen before. Nothing and no one.

His chest was not nearly as marked up as his back, though the marks were different. Three more different men within the week, plus two of the others. Cigarette burns, bruise marks obviously made by a hand, some scratch marks, but still no information on John Watson. He heard the door open behind him and made a small examination of Lestrade.

He had woken up late today due to a fight with his wife last night over where she had been earlier that day. His shave was sloppy and he cut himself at the jaw with a new butterfly razor. His clothing didn't match, meaning that his wife was in the wrong but unwilling to admit and had no desire to make it up to him. He wasn't wearing his ring, he'd throwing it across the room in rage and couldn't find it. He'd searched again before he left, sending him back another few minutes and scuffing his knees. Plus countless other information, but it wasn't important. He could see Lestrade perfectly.

Sherlock turned back to The Man but he remained as blank as before. It was a curious sight. Lestrade turned away momentarily at the nakedness, but brought his interest back again.

"Why don't you make some tea, Henry? We'll be in the sitting room." Watson explained simply. Henry nodded. He didn't brother to cover himself. He wiped the excess salve off his back and shoulders and left the towel on the chair. Sherlock followed him out, completely unbothered by his nudity. Lestrade seemed slightly put off. The Man motioned them to the delicate couch and he neatly seated himself in the opposite chair, one leg crossed neatly over the other.

"Could you cover yourself? Perhaps with a napkin. Lestrade doesn't seem to know where to look." Sherlock suggested casually. John didn't even seem to consider it. Vanilla eyes glanced over the DI before curving back to the detective.

"You're looking in the right place, Detective Inspector Lestrade." The blond assured him with a small quirk of the lips. His attention returned to Sherlock, though his interest was minimum.

"You're not the first to try and confiscate my photos and so far, I doubt you'll be successful, either. I don't entirely understand, though," He hummed mildly. "Why do you want them back so bad? I have not threatened anyone, Mr. Holmes. I have not even told them that I have them. Maybe I don't. I don't remember confirming that I did."

"But you didn't deny it. Roughly the same as confirmation. Those photographs are dangerous, Mr. Watson." Sherlock assured him. He offered Lestrade the smallest of nods and the man left the brightly lit little room.

"Are they now? I wouldn't have known. In fact, I would have thought that someone like her was supposed to be _dominate_. Shouldn't that be a good feature in politics?" The Man offered, touching a single finger to his face. Sherlock searched over his face, but he found nothing indicating bitterness or even the smallest hint of power. He truly was submissive right down to his core.

"That's right. Politics like their dominators to be cold and calculating." He drew his finger along a scar over his chest. It was broke up by the layers on top, but it was clearly seen as he traced it. "A cold, calculating man did this, you know."

"I know." Sherlock answered instantly.

"Good. Do you know what he did for a living?" The Man asked. The scar was too old to tell so, he didn't offer a response. The sub smiled.

"He was a nursery school teacher. This one," He traced another marking. This one was more recent and Sherlock could instantly place it.

"This was made by the one you're trying to protect. Warm and sexual violence. What does that tell you, Mr. Holmes?" Watson didn't wait long to let him answer. All the better, of course, for Sherlock didn't have the answer. He wasn't sure if there was one.

"It tells you, Mr. Holmes, that people are unpredictable. You can see everything. You can read the marks on me like stiff profiles of the criminals you catch. Their height," Watson fingered a scar on the top layer.

"Five ten."

"Their dominate hand."

"Right."

"Maybe even some more personal details. Like occupation."

"Flight attendant."

"But you can't tell me why they were here."

"To have power." Sherlock answered cockily. The Man laughed at him with a truly amused smile. He didn't find that funny.

"Is that what you think, Mr. Holmes? That the power is in the dominator?" He questioned in a way that suggested that whatever he answered would be wrong. Sherlock tilted his head curiously, but suspiciously. He might not know a lot about sex, but he was pretty sure that was how these relationships worked. The dominators had the power and the submissives were submissive. As far as black and white things went, this seemed to be a good example of one. Sex was usually black and white and not worth an ounce of his time. Yet, here he was, for no good reason for pictures that truly might not exist. They did, of course, and he would retrieve them, but they were harmless.

"Let's move this on, Mr. Holmes." The Man dropped his smile to a sweet, calm curve, but didn't pose an answer to his own question. Sherlock wasn't pleased with the answer, but he was perfectly content with moving along.

"Give me the photos and I will leave."

"I will give you nothing." Watson answered smoothly.

"Then you do have them."

"Debatable."

"Then they're in this room." The silent answer was enough to let him know that he was right. He caught the sub's eyes firmly and moments later, the alarm went off. The Man kept his stare with no sign of turning away. His smile faded away completely.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes. Before I joined this profession, I was in the military. A doctor, sure, but even a doctor is a soldier when faced with an enemy. Do you really think that such a trick would work on me? In times of crisis, you keep your eyes on the enemy, Mr. Holmes." The Man assured him slowly, straightening up his back ever so slightly. A formable opponent, then. Sherlock broke eye contact first. For a few moments, ivory eyes remained firmly set on him. Then the ever so small flicker led him straight to the point.

"You can turn it off now, Lestrade." He called, pushing himself to his feet. The taller male stalked across the room and Watson watched him with the smallest hint of anxiety. He was right, then. Sherlock might not know the reason behind it, but he definitely knew how it worked. The fire alarm continued to run through the house. Sherlock dropped his coat over the older male, covering him up.

"And when the enemy is weak, make sure they haven't snuck into your spoils." All it required was a few searching of the fingers and Sherlock uncovered the safe. The Man pursed his lips tightly, though he didn't seem upset. He seemed more curious than anything. Sherlock examined the safe and the buttons. There was the light shininess of salve on a few of them, making it much easier to him.

"Six digits. Not a birthday. The numbers are wrong." He mused. The Man pulled his coat on, closing it up to cover himself.

"I've already told you the combination." He insisted with a hint of sweetness. Before he could draw too much on it, the alarm stopped and the door opened up. Several men entered, including Lestrade and guns. The detective gave him a passive look. This situation suddenly went incredibly sour. Sherlock watched them maneuver The Man to his knees and hold Lestrade firmly at the barrel of a gun. He was not okay with this. They were disrupting his plans.

"Alright, Mr. Holmes. Open the safe." One of them, the leader obviously, instructed. Sherlock met eyes with Watson.

"I don't know the combination." It wasn't a lie. He hadn't had enough time. They hadn't given him enough time.

"I heard him tell you he told you."

"If you were listening, you would know that he didn't."

"Don't try to pull that. He said he told you so he must have told you." He grunted with obvious determination. Sherlock's mind was already cracking away with vicious intent. He needed to solve the combination regardless and the thrill was welcome but the threat was not.

"I don't know the combination." He said firmly.

"Fine," That was the bad voice. He motioned to one of his men. "On the count of three, shoot the DI." Sherlock really didn't like this. Lestrade watched him with confident, but worried, eyes. He was trusted, perhaps Lestrade even thought he actually knew the code. That sounded like something he would do, but it wasn't the case this time. Time to really grind it out, then. He did need is DI. The others just didn't work well with him. They certainly wouldn't have accompanied him like this.

"One," The combination had to be something he could see. Something Watson had said or done within the allotted time he had been here. The scars, possibly, but they were too changeable. Scars healed. It was something more permanent.

"Two," Alright. Looking. Lestrade was looking in the right spot. It was on The Man somewhere. Or perhaps it was the man. That wasn't something that wouldn't change so easily. Not his weight nor height, the numbers didn't match.

"Three,"

"Okay!" Sherlock said swiftly. "Okay." He turned to the safe, shook out his shoulders a little and prepared for the safe to possibly explode. It wouldn't, he knew, but there was always the smallest of possibilities. First two numbers are his collar; the diameter around his neck. The next two are his wrist; the combination of the diameter of both wrist. Then his hips? No. Definitely his genitalia. Which numbers, though. Now was as good of a time as ever to guess. He entered the last two numbers and felt the safe give way.

A war hero. The wound on his shoulder was inconsistent with everything else. He was going to protect his product at all cost and was possibly even a little paranoid. He wouldn't just allow someone to open his safe and take what was most important to his lifestyle. Whips, binds, houses and clients, they could all be replaced. Photos were another thing.

"Vacation cameos!" Lestrade hit the ground in a frenzy and Sherlock ripped open the safe door. A shot fired out and dropped the man dead. The Man truly was fantastic. He grabbed at the offending enemy and dislocated his shoulder completely with a well aimed yank before proceeding to knock him unconscious. Sherlock took care of their ring leader, hurriedly taking him out before he could cause anymore damage. The room was silent for a moment and Sherlock fished the phone out from the safe. Wasn't that hard at all, was it now? He was almost a little disappointed.

Lestrade glanced around a little, soothing his fears. Perhaps he trusted Sherlock a little too much. He nodded to Sherlock, trusting, once again, the detective to handle The Man.

"I'll call for back up." He murmured. Sherlock was more interested in the phone in his hand. It was locked, as it was so kind to tell him. The blonde man watched him with contempt now. Another code, only this one he wasn't willing to let Sherlock find out.

"Hand it over, Mr. Holmes." He instructed with an open palm. "It does not do you any good."

"I figured out your safe, I can figure out your phone." Sherlock assured him. He was given a scowl in response. Watson wasn't too pleased with him. It was something he could easily guess, then. Only four symbols, single, using only the letters available on the phone.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade yelled for him. Sherlock pocketed the phone and hurried out to find the DI's voice. He followed it up the stairs to find The Man's assistant face down on the floor.

"Alive. Just unconscious."

"Mm. Well Henry's use to that." The sub assured them without worry. Lestrade trusted into the connecting room and peeked around mildly.

"Looks like they came in through the window. I'm going to go check to see if there's any more of them." The older gentleman scurried out without another thought. Sherlock took a look around for himself. They were after the same thing he was, but why? Mycroft had sent him straight from the source then that would mean these people were after the blackmail for themselves or their employers. It was very powerful blackmail. It was no wonder Mycroft was itchy to get his hands on them first. He peered out the window for a moment before he felt a hand between his shoulder blades.

He turned to the shorter male, meeting the ever changing wheat eyes. They were passive, submissive, and completely harmless. Sherlock knew it was false, or at least semi-false, but it mashed in his senses like pollen, obstructing his vision and deduction in a way that was unfamiliar to him. It was almost as if the man was trying to tempt him into asserting his dominance, but in doing so would somehow render him the fool. His thoughts were cut short as he felt a needle being shoved into his shoulder. Almost instantly his vision swam.

"The dominators don't hold the power, Mr. Holmes. Power play is exactly that. A play. Pretend. A show. In the end, it's the sub that is in control. A sub makes their dom loose control completely. A sub makes their dom show the colors that no one else sees. And a sub makes the powerful men and women of the world tremble without the flashy show." His world spun around him, but he was sober enough to realize The Man was reaching to retrieve his phone. Sherlock grappled with him, but he was too weak to properly hold him back.

"I'm really sorry for this, Mr. Holmes. These pictures are mine and I don't like to be bullied." Sherlock hit the ground hard, blinking his eyes against the impending darkness. Then he was gone. The Man took a gentle pace from the room, giving the smallest of glances as the DI re-entered.

"He'll be fine. A perfectly stable sedative for when clients get a little too rough. Just make sure he gets a lot of water when he wakes up, DI Lestrade." The Man hummed politely enough. He disappeared into the bathroom and Lestrade checked his friends pulse before hurrying after the assailant. The blonde man sat neatly on the window seal and watched him with the smallest of smiles.

"You were looking in the right places, DI Lestrade."

o-o-o

Sherlock had never dreamed fluidly before. He couldn't call it a dream, really. It was the side effect of whatever he'd been slipped, of course. It was crisp and clear. He was standing in a room, a cell obviously, but a well furnished cell as if someone were trying to trick him into believing it wasn't a cell. There was an assortment of tools at his disposal, all new and clean. A pale, new back faced him. The size and stature suggested The Man, but the lack of scars said otherwise.

"Have a go." His hypnotic voice suggested. It was tempting but perhaps for the wrong reasons.

"I can't." Sherlock responded as he brushed over the handles. He had to say, some of them were very creative even in his own mind, but he favored the ridding crop. He ran his fingers over the flexible arch and the leather bit at the tip.

"Why not? Because you're afraid of not being in control? Maybe because you're afraid to let anyone know how much of a monster you really are. Or maybe just because you don't think you deserve it. Not yet." The Man purred rather happily.

"Things aren't adding up. Someone knows I have the pictures, I have lots of pictures, and someone wants them. In fact, it seems like a lot of people want them. Whatever's on this phone is worth killing over. It's not just some dirty photos that could easily be covered up. So what is it? You should really get to work." He tapped his pearl colored wrist over his head.

Sherlock blearily blinked his eyes open. A familiar face steered into his vision and he tried to make clear on it, but his eyes wouldn't cooperate.

"As a doctor, you should really try to get more sleep, you know." Watson scolded mildly. Sherlock blinked hard and when he opened his eyes, the sun was in his window and any sign of the submissive was gone. He sat up swiftly, discovering himself in his room with less than pleasing information. He'd been heavily drugged. He wasn't sure he'd ever been drugged like that before. Some self administered test, and not test, with an arrangement of sedatives, but this was powerful. At least a doctor had given it to him.

"Lestrade?" He had to get back to work. And he really didn't like being put under. Not very submissive behavior at all. Defensive mechanism, Sherlock was sure. He was still a soldier and still willing to defend himself, his friends, and his lifestyle. The door cracked open just as he attempted to get to his feet and fail completely. The DI helped him to his feet and tossed him back onto the bed. He murmured incoherently into his pillow.

"Stay there." Lestrade instructed. "You're lucky I'm even here. The least you can do is stay in your damn bed until you can walk on your own. I'm in the living room if you need me."

"I don't need you."

"And yet here I am." The door closed ever so quietly and Sherlock was forced to give in to his drowsiness.

_Mm~ More~ _

The noise echoed through the room and Sherlock lifted his head. A single glance told him exactly where it came from. His coat pocket of the coat he had given to The Man during their meeting. He forced himself to his feet with a less than fluid motion and approached the door as if it were a wild animal. He fished the phone out of his pocket and tentatively checked his messages.

Until next time, Mr. Holmes.

o-o-o

A couple days and Mycroft stopped by for the pictures, of course. Sherlock wasn't sure if he was happy or not that Lestrade was there. He stopped by each day to make sure he was okay, despite Sherlock subtly telling him to leave. He knew the man was only here due to the brutality of his last fight with his wife. They were getting worse, it seemed, but that was no reason for him to hang around his flat all the time. He did seem to buffer his brother a little, though.

"So you didn't get the photos?"

"They're in safe hands." Sherlock assured the older Holmes confidently.

"I don't consider the hands of fugitive sex worker safe hands." Mycroft countered unpleasantly.

"I don't see why you want them so badly. He hasn't actually done anything wrong."

"Except possessing blackmail on a very important person."

"It's not technically blackmail yet. Simply photos depicting acts of sexual activities."

"In the hands of someone who knows how to use it and doesn't exactly have the morals not to." Silence lit up the room like lightning. They wouldn't agree. It was simply something that wouldn't happen, not as long as Sherlock didn't want to agree. Once Mycroft turned his back, it was another story.

"They're photos." Sherlock finally said before turning back to his newspaper. "They're sentimental."

"You don't understand sentiment, Sherlock." Maybe he didn't, but this conversation was over. Sherlock had no interest in further talking about this subject and it was obvious when he stopped saying anything more. The next sound that broke through the room wasn't Mycroft, though. It was The Man.

_Mm~ More~_

Lestrade nearly spit out his mouth full of tea and turned to Sherlock with a strange look. However, the consultant didn't act as if it were anything new. It wasn't actually, but the noise did seem a bit louder with other people in the room. It was a ploy to get his attention and make sure he answered the phone. It was working. Watson was a very interesting man.

"Your phone doesn't usually make that sound." Lestrade insisted intelligently.

"I believe it's some kind of prank." Sherlock answered. Mycroft stared at him with displeasure. He had a feeling this conversation wasn't going to end any time soon. His brother had nothing to worry about, unless, of course, there was something he wasn't being told and Sherlock really hated not being told things. His plan was to get The Man to tell him exactly what these people were after. They were willing to kill him for it, after all. He wasn't getting far. He kept changing subjects. Entertaining, but not the least bit helpful.

It had to be some sort of code. Something dangerous in the wrong hands that criminals would kill for and Mycroft was desperate to get back. A military medic, maybe it was something he picked up in the military. The photos were simply icing on the cake. This wasn't the behavior of someone with the occupation The Man had, though. The only way he would use force was if he was being seriously and possibly even psychologically threatened. He would have remained quiet if they hadn't started pressing on his throat. This was completely Mycroft's fault.

"Are you listening to me, Sherlock?"

"Not really. Busy." He was busy with his texts. A very interesting text.

_You're with your little posh friend? _

_Tell him, Mr. Holmes, that as long as I'm alive, the pictures are safe. _

"I think he's asking to be protected." That did make the most sense. Sherlock needed more pieces. This man was too mysterious.

"Protected?"

"He was threatened. I'm sure your people took care of that, though." He was probably going to try to return to his home, but he wasn't going to until he thought it was safe. His assistant, Henry Knight, had been completely useless. He knew absolutely nothing of his boss besides work and even then, it was very limited. Sherlock knew he was lying, covering up for his boss (and one sided love), but he also didn't think he actually knew anything useful. Whatever he was hiding was minimum. The Man was self sufficient and there was no reason he wouldn't keep things even from his most faithful assistant.

"John Watson. The Americans wouldn't be interested in him because of a few compromising photos. There's more. Much more." The Holmes caught eyes. Mycroft's ability to remain unwavered in the face of conflict was exactly what allowed Sherlock to know he was right. "Something big's coming, isn't it?"

"John Watson is no longer your concern. From now on, you'll stay out of this."

"Will I?"

"Yes Sherlock. You will."

o-o-o

That wasn't going to happen, sure enough. Over the next month or so, Sherlock continued to contact The Man up until the week before Christmas. It was a tricky situation to deal with. He had two ways of going about getting what he wanted. He was closing in, but without the extra step, he would get nothing. Considering Watson's occupation, using dominance to get the answer he wanted would be the best way. However, that seemed like something that would backfire. If he spent most of his time under dominance, than he probably wouldn't respond to it willingly. Plus, he was submissive, not weak. If anything, it would mean he would be even more tolerate to force. He'd play along, but he wouldn't break. His mental flexibility was enamoring. His second choice was to be purely friendly about it. He could worm his way into getting The Man to admit what he wanted sort of like a false sense of security. It was possible that Watson would respond better to a situation where he was treated like a normal person. However, it was also possible that he wouldn't give up anything without a sharp jab in the right direction.

A combination of the two techniques would be best, but also incredibly confusing and possibly drive Watson further back. This was thrilling. It was a game of land mines. He had no idea what was going to happen next. It was a tiny bit strange he hadn't been contacted in days. Sherlock wasn't going to make the first move and he never would. It was dominate behavior and Sherlock would not be drawn into any situation where he was viewed upon how everyone else was. If Watson was expecting him to be forceful then the best way to go about things was to be the opposite. It would confuse and disorient him, making him susceptible to attack.

It was hard to think about that, however, with Lestrade forcing him to attend the Christmas party at the office. No one liked him, he didn't drink, so this whole thing was pointless. Apparently, it was to make him more friendly with the rest of the 'club'. Sherlock didn't like clubs. So far, however, he'd done nothing more than make Lestrade scold him. It was not his fault they were so readable. He'd had a moment of kindness for about three minutes and some seconds while he was playing violin, but that ended abruptly when a drunk worker stated that he was out of key and Sherlock retorted with 'drinking will not cover up your young partner's cologne or the mark on your neck'. His wife kept the man from confronting Sherlock.

Lestrade admonished him. Sherlock wasn't interested. Another hour went by, he tested the punch and thoroughly decided that he wasn't fond of the taste, tried to escape only to be pulled back again, and finally made Hooper cry. Not on purpose, really. He simply made some deductions about her obviously different dress and the way her lipstick matched the box she had brought to the 'secret Santa'. He was bored and slightly agitated and this was the last placed he needed to be. He had better things to do than watch a couple of less than competent force get drunk off their asses. He'd apologized. More or less, at least. As it turned out, the little red gift she had brought that matched her little red lips she was obviously attempting to ruse a kiss out of, was for him.

Sherlock already knew of her affections, though. He simply wasn't interested. She was useful which, in Sherlock's book, was about the closest anyone got to being a friend. Useful, useless, and dangerous. Of course, people drifted between them all the time, but there were a few people that did. Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson. Okay. So. Not very many of them, but still. Mycroft drifted. Watson was hard to place. He wasn't useful, not to him. However, he wasn't useless, though Sherlock wasn't currently sure what his use was, and he was in no way dangerous as far as he could tell. That meant he was looking at possibly creating another category. Entertaining? Mysterious? Not appropriate, Sherlock was sure.

He should have probably been paying more attention to what was going on right now. Lestrade was looking at him rather sharply and his concentration took a moment to catch up with his mind. Not enough for anyone to notice, of course. The DI was holding up a very plain box. It wasn't dressed up very Christmas like at all, but rather wrapped in a pale paper that stood out against the rest of the over complicated collage of gifts. Sherlock knew that color.

The color of John Watson's eyes; cosmic latte.

"Thank you, Lestrade." Sherlock took the little box and swiftly moved past him and out of the building without even hesitating when the older man called after him in confusion. He had better things to do and this was the proof. Once outside, he opened the box. Sherlock was both ecstatic and depressed at what he found. He checked it to make sure it was what he knew it was and, indeed, it was. It was The Man's phone. It was no wonder he hadn't contacted him. This meant very bad things. As if on cue, his phone rang. Part of him didn't look at the number because he knew who it was and the other part didn't look because he hoped that it was someone else.

It wasn't. John Watson was dead.

He was called down to the morgue at Bart's. Molly was only a few minutes behind him and Mycroft met him outside. He didn't have to do this. There were other ways of IDing the body, but he was perfectly capable of doing it himself. Watson was dead, laying in the body bag with his face probably smashed in, and Sherlock knew it. The Man wouldn't have handed over his phone unless something was going to happen to him. It was unfortunate that thing had to be death. Watson wasn't being bitter, though. No, he sent Sherlock the phone because he knew he would find out the password and Sherlock would.

Molly unzipped the bag and his fear was rationalized. His face was beaten up beyond recognition. It was awful. His teeth were broken, and blood marred most of his face. The younger woman looked to him for confirmation and Sherlock glanced over his neck and shoulders. The scars were slightly different, but considering his occupation, that was a given. He could be IDed by his scars or his face, but he could definitely be identified by other parts. He motioned his head to the other side of the bag and she carefully unzipped it.

"It's him." He assured his brother. It was thoroughly disappointing. To think he'd actually started to like the man. He was interesting and whenever he got bored, the topic of Watson always pushed the feeling away a little. Sherlock left, fled, the room. There was no more need for him there, after all. It was fun while it lasted and it was simply just too bad it hadn't lasted very long at all. Sherlock couldn't even be surprised. Watson was a sub. How long would it have been before one of his clients took an obsession a little too far and things ended up the same? Sherlock knew that wasn't what happened here. Someone had killed him for his information and they would be after his phone next.

He felt his brother come up alongside him. Mycroft offered him a cigarette. Sherlock took it.

"Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?" Even for a normal person, it wasn't normal to be upset over the death of The Man. He was a stranger with minimum amount of text flirting. There was nothing to be attracted to and nothing for him to be upset over. Even Sherlock didn't believe that. People were typically upset by other people's deaths. He had the pleasure of Lestrade alerting him to when he miss stepped which seemed to be quiet often. He'd considered it before, about himself, but it had never really mattered before. The Man was different from most people.

"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock." His brother assured him. Not that he could take is brother's advice. His brother was just as cold and detached as he was. Not that he cared about The Man. That was completely irrelevant to the question he had asked. It had been fun and nothing more. A small puff of smoke drifted to the ceiling in a sweet cloud of nicotine. Lestrade would be at his house, then, as if he didn't know the man was looking for his stash. 'Danger nights'. As far as anyone knew, he was clean. Mycroft had no proof that he was still using cocaine in any amounts and Lestrade was not going to find it even if he did have any. Which he didn't. With Lestrade hovering around his flat as of lately, it was getting a little haphazard to keep it in the house.

Sure enough, he went home and everything was out of place. Lestrade had at least tried to put things back, but it was useless. He was drunk and Sherlock wasn't interested. To be frank, they were right to be worried. The cab ride home was enough for Sherlock to debate his 'clean' decision. Now that he had the physical phone, he could begin working on how to get it open. He didn't have to have Watson to tell him what was on it, thought it would have been nice to know the code. More games from a dead man. That was how he made a living, though, reading dead people.

"Are you okay?" Lestrade asked. He really was worried. Sherlock knew that. He must have taken a little too long to answer, for his answer didn't convince the DI or even himself.

"Yeah." He murmured in the simplest way possible. That was the last word Sherlock said for weeks. He didn't form a coherent sentence for even longer. It worried Lestrade to no end. He did have any cases to give him and even if he had, he wasn't sure Sherlock would take them. Even Mrs. Hudson had told him he spent most of his time alone in his flat playing that stupid violin. Lestrade was torn between helping him and being utterly frustrated by him.

It was almost as if he had hurt feelings. Sherlock didn't get hurt feelings. Mycroft had explained it to him, admittedly badly, but Lestrade simply didn't see it. So the man had some meaningless conversation with a strange blonde over the phone. Apparently to the Holmes, that was just love at true sight. If Lestrade could figure out how to work his damn phone maybe he could actually get somewhere. He'd seen a few of the text that passed between the two and it didn't seem anything for Sherlock to actually get attached to. Most of it consisted of something similar to watching what Sherlock usually did. The only difference was that his little sub was more interested in dropping compliments and applauding his intelligent than most people did. He was quiet clever himself, at least, that was the gist of what Mycroft had grumbled at him.

Seeing as this had never happened before, Lestrade had no idea how to comfort Sherlock. He had tried, certainly, but if he got any response at all, it was a blank stare and an annoyed note on the violin. Mycroft had insisted that he leave the man alone, but Lestrade preferred if Sherlock didn't throw himself out the window. Brothers were supposed to help each other in times like these. The older Holmes didn't even know what to do. Sherlock had never had a – a _crush_ before.

The best he could do was leave him alone. Lestrade wasn't just going to let Mycroft let this go, though. He planned on having a very discussion with the other Holmes over their lunch this afternoon. He would have had it sooner but his now ex-wife had ever so conveniently smashed her book down on his phone while he had been retrieving some things from 'her' flat. It was his flat, actually! He was simply kind enough to let her stay in it so she wouldn't have to live on the bloody street. She could at least act a little grateful instead of turning his already impossible to use phone into mush. With Mycroft and all his secretes, he had no idea where he was meeting him today.

Thankfully, he didn't have to fret over it too much. A familiar car pulled along the curb and 'Anthea' sat inside. Sometimes it was useful getting suspicious lifts out of nowhere. Not that he did everything Mycroft told him to, but he did. It wasn't because he was powerful and intimidating, either, it was because he made a ridiculous amount of sense. Lestrade still wasn't sure if he'd been completely lucid when he had been talked into buying a complete new wardrobe. His old one was 'worn out and tired. Not at all gentlemen like'. Whatever that meant.

"I hope this is another one of those abandoned places. They give me the creeps." Lestrade grumbled. Mycroft and his power complex was something he had gotten use to and even comfortable with. More recently uncomfortable with the whole sexual fetish thing. He knew that wasn't Mycroft's intention, but at the same time, he really didn't know. No one could really 'know' anything about the Holmes. No one knew they had feelings, after all. Sherlock did, at least. A person without feelings wouldn't act like this. Mycroft was still up in the air.

As usual, 'Anthea' didn't offer him a verbal response. It was always a different woman, but it was simply easier to call them all Anthea. Lestrade didn't usually pay them much attention, anyways. They never paid him any mind to begin with. Not to mention, if they were working for the government (Mycroft), he was probably better off not saying anything he would regret later. He did that enough to Mycroft's face.

It was a dark, damp little place. God, why couldn't Mycroft just have a nice meal in a nice little restaurant for once? He was getting the feeling he actually liked being in these places. There had better be a damn good meal in there. Or a very vulnerable Mycroft. No one would ever know he thought those thoughts, however. Lestrade wouldn't even admit to himself that he thought those thoughts. Those were very bad thoughts.

Upon entering the open area, he was thoroughly disappointed. It wasn't a nice meal and it certainly wasn't Mycroft. It was The Man. Lestrade would know him anywhere. The blonde looked solemnly out the open window, giving no sign that he had even seen him come in. He was supposed to be dead. Sherlock had proclaimed it John Watson's body, but here he was. Sherlock didn't know. He couldn't possibly know and still act like this.

"Hello, DI Lestrade." The sub seemed to whisper from across the room. He seemed out of place in, uh, _clothes_. They weren't expensive, or fancy, or even sexual. It threw Lestrade off a little. He looked like an everyday person without all his scars showing. How many times had he been passed on the street? How many times had he passed Sherlock on the street and the man would have never known the wiser?

"Tell him you're alive." Lestrade demanded. Sherlock had to know. The Man slowly shook his head, turning ever so slightly to look him in the eye. He sighed, a deep breath that almost seemed pained.

"He'd come after me." He answered simply.

"I'll come after you if you don't." Maybe Sherlock didn't see him as a friend, but Lestrade wouldn't stand aside and watch his detective get hurt. Sherlock was his friend and he would protect him, whether he wanted it or not. He probably didn't. The Man smiled a little with the smallest twist of the lips.

"Will you?"

"Yes." The two men faced off for a moment, but remained the same distance apart. The DI couldn't tell if he was unconvinced or was amused that Sherlock actually needed to be protected. Lestrade certainly was surprised by the suddenly obtained fact. The conversation moved forward without a clear answer.

"Look," He said calmly enough. "I made a mistake. I sent something to Sherlock for safe keeping and now I need it back."

"No." Lestrade didn't even know what it was and it didn't matter. As much as people liked to believe he wasn't good at his job, he was and he could put together enough information to know that it was most likely the phone with the pictures on it. Why would Sherlock have it? If he really did, that would explain why he was on the violin of all things. He actually was thinking, not in grief. That made way more sense than grieving.

"It's for his own safety." The Man insisted, his words a little more stressed. He was actually serious.

"So's this; tell him you're alive."

"I can't."

"Fine. I will and I still won't help you." Not that Sherlock had any reason to believe him, but he would. Of course he would. A small crinkle appeared between the doctor's eyes as he frowned completely to his core. Now that Lestrade thought about it. He could be in a lot of danger. His mind hadn't assessed the danger due to The Man's submissive nature.

"What do I say?" The Man insisted, straightening out his back in a defensive way.

"What do you normally say? You've texted him a lot!" That sound was unmistakable and Sherlock wouldn't change it no matter how much he insisted it was inappropriate. The Man scowled.

"No, actually, I know what you've said. You flirted with Sherlock Holmes." That much was obvious. No one complimented Sherlock unless there were ulterior motive and this man had complimented him a lot. Sherlock was a complete sucker for anyone that would spare any attention his way. Unfortunately, he was too much of a prick most of the time for anyone to stand him long enough to give him what he liked so much. It was a sort of self filter. The people he pushed away obviously weren't the people he wanted to be around.

"It wasn't flirting." Watson retorted with a softer infliction. "It was being nice. He's brilliant, you know. Absolutely and completely brilliant, but no one notices because he's a little brash." That was an understatement. He sighed almost patiently and withdrew his phone.

"The world is cold, DI Lestrade, and his luster is lost on the cruel and stupid." He tapped away on his phone and when he was finished, he showed it to the older man pointedly. Lestrade would have questioned it, but the unmistakable noise struck the room. Sherlock was here and by the sound of things, he was leaving quickly.

The Man looked distraught.

By the time Mycroft located him, The Man was long gone. Lestrade's argument was suspended, at least. Now Sherlock couldn't possibly mope about his dead crush. There hadn't been a lot of time to discuss much of anything in the end, though. When he returned to work, the first call he got was from Sherlock. He wasn't sure what to expect from him now. He couldn't possibly be upset, could he? He wasn't. Well, actually, he could have been. He'd thrown a man out the window. By the looks of it, more than once. At least he wasn't mad at him. After he heard what the man had done to Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade was slightly less apprehensive. He'd just been asking for it.

A short, indirect conversation assured him that this was over the phone. Perhaps it was better if he did give it back to the Man. This was becoming far more dangerous than he would have liked. They were after Mrs. Hudson this time, sure, but what if Sherlock had been there? More importantly, where was the phone now? Sherlock wouldn't give him a straight answer.

Incidents aside, Sherlock did seem to be in slightly better mood than he had been before. He still played his violin far more than he needed to, but he was definitely better. He was even back in the lab again, much to Molly's enjoyment.

The Man was alive and Sherlock wasn't going to waste time withering away. There was something on this phone far more than what he had ever thought there would be. He could care less what was on it, though. This was a challenge and incredibly personal. He would find out what was on it if it killed him. It wouldn't, but his point remained. Unfortunately, the idea of opening it up was not a choice. The x-ray showed what he already knew. The Man was very clever. It wasn't going to be forced open without destroying the contents. He was clever enough to fool him into thinking he was dead for several months.

Sherlock leaned away from the screen a little, watching it with distain. A four letter code wasn't particularly difficult, but seeing as The Man was very clever, there were any number of options. It could be incredibly simple to the point where no reasonable human being would consider it or it could be relevant to obscure things or it could even be something right in front of his face. He only had four guesses and he had no way of narrowing them down. He was enjoying this.

"Wow," Molly murmured over his shoulder. "He really is clever, isn't he?" She commented thoughtlessly. Of course he was clever. Sherlock already knew that. A clever, clever little submissive army man. Very, very clever. He couldn't have possibly-

Sherlock took up the phone in his hand again and examined the blocks and taunting words. It was the right about and completely plausible. He entered his address into the phone, only pausing for a moment as if to delay the inevitable, and watched the phone tell him it was incorrect. He was a little closer at least. Now he knew one thing it was not and it backed up his earlier deduction. Watson was not someone to take lightly.

With the day gone, Sherlock returned home. It wasn't a complete failure, even if it felt like that. Lestrade met him outside his door. A single look told him everything. Mycroft had asked him to come. His brother really needed to stop worrying about him. He was perfectly fine. If anything, he was better than fine. He wasn't bored and bored was the worst thing he felt. He would unlock the phone, find Watson, and rub it in his face. Lestrade flopped down on the chair beside the fireplace, ignoring the mess of papers around him.

"I should just move in here, eh." The man grumbled. "The basement flat is still open." That was an awful idea. He wouldn't, of course, but Sherlock wasn't exactly interested in his self dialog. He paused in the doorway. Someone had been here. No, in fact, they were still here.

"I seem to have a guest."

"Careful. Someone might actually think you're a detective." Lestrade responded sarcastically. Guest, not irritant. Of all the things to have found in his bed, this was the best. The Man looked comfortable in his sheet, huddled in the cloth as if it were his own.

"What? In your bedroom?" The DI picked himself up and stood beside Sherlock. "Oh."

o-o-o

The Man looked only slightly better than he had on the slab. His face was bruised and he had a few stitched certainly not from any of his clients. Sherlock wasn't even sure if he could see out of one of his eyes. Someone had gotten to him and had gotten him good. No wonder he had come back to life. It wasn't hard to put the pieces together. Whoever had done this to Watson wanted the phone he had given to Sherlock who had no reason to give it back. Lestrade tended to his face, helping the little doctor tend to the stitching on his face. They hadn't been done by a proper hand, so Sherlock had to assume whoever had made them had also put them back together.

"Thank you. I had to leave poor Henry behind." Watson mused smoothly. Some of his scars were already healing so it had been a while since he had a client. He looked even smaller in Sherlock's robe. He was more like a pet than what Mycroft had made him up to be. He wasn't dangerous, he really did need to be protected. The thought was unusual and instantly, Sherlock attempted to back track. Watson let out pitifully pained noise as Lestrade's fingers pressed a little too hard and Sherlock stopped trying. It was so obviously a ruse, but one he did unconsciously. It didn't hurt. Watson was responding the same way he responded to everything else; bending but not breaking.

"Why did you come here?" Sherlock questioned after he had finished his deducting. He knew why.

"I have something. I don't understand what it is, though."

"Assumed. Show me." He handed the phone over and watched as The Man tapped away at the little keys. He snatched it away the moment he was done. Watson didn't attempt to get it back, but rather smiled at him contently as Sherlock took the numbers he had entered into the fake phone and used them to unlock the real one.

Incorrect. I am - - - - locked. Three attempts left.

"I know my phone, Mr. Holmes. My entire life is on my phone and I know when it is in my hand." He chuckled softly, removing the real phone from his hand and taking it on himself to open his phone. Sherlock hadn't fully expected it to work, but it had been worth the try.

"I'm surprised, really. I thought you would have figured it out by now." Now he was simply being goaded. Sherlock applauded him. The Man watched him as his fingers worked, finding no need to actually look at the phone. It was probably to make sure Sherlock wouldn't try to snatch it out of his hand. He had debated it, but that wouldn't be winning. That would be force and he had already decided that force was not a good way of going about this problem. He looked down once before showing the screen to him. It was a series of numbers and letters.

"I've had it checked by one of my clients, but he couldn't make heads or tails of it." Watson explained with a patient sigh. Sherlock began his work.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

"It's an airline seat allocation number." He opened up his laptop. "Give me a second and I can tell you the flight." He felt a warm breath on his neck and momentarily stopped. The Man breathed against his neck.

"You're a brilliant man, Sherlock Holmes. I'd love to have you take me over this table. Right now."

"Gregory." Both men glanced toward Lestrade questioningly. "My name's Gregory. Or Greg." He smiled mildly, reminding them that he was still in the room and still very much paying attention. He wasn't about to leave Sherlock alone with this man, after all. Neither commented on statement, though. Sherlock turned back to the screen and smiled with all the confidence in the world.

"And that, Doctor Watson, is your flight." Sherlock declared proudly. The 747 tomorrow at 6:30 to Heathrow. The Man searched the screen with a bubbly smile. He brushed his fingers along the underside of his neck, simply inviting the other to bite the pale skin there. Even beat up he was adorable. He placed a warm kiss on Sherlock's sharp cheekbone.

"You've saved my life, Mr. Holmes." He whispered sweetly. "You have no idea." Saved him? Sherlock had to take in a new line of possibilities. He had no idea what he had done but he knew how grateful John Watson was.

o-o-o

The Man remained in his flat for the night. At any moment, Sherlock expected to look back and find him long gone. It was impossible to tell with him. He didn't seem interested in fleeing, but he did appear a little anxious. Watson made tea and even prodded at a few little cases Sherlock had suppose to have been working on. The game wasn't over. He still needed to get the photos to Mycroft. He didn't need to, but as long as he was doing it anyways, he might as well shove it in his brother's face.

Watson sat across from him with a solemn expression.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, if it was the end of the world—if this was the very last night—would you have dinner with me?" The Man grabbed his wrist, those sea shell colored eyes focused on him. His eyes were so pale that his dilated pupils were conveniently easy to see. His pulse throbbed under his fingers.

"Sherlock!" The voice called. Watson pulled away slowly. Sherlock was almost disappointed.

"Too late."

"It's not the end of the world. It's Mrs. Hudson." He assured him. The Man only smiled.

"Good night Mr. Holmes."

Watson was gone in the morning, leaving behind absolutely nothing behind. Around noon, Sherlock was taken away to the very same plane he had so graciously informed The Man about. He should have known something had happened. He really should have, but he would never let Mycroft know he was right. He couldn't possibly blame this on him. He hadn't been manipulated. At least, it didn't feel like he'd been manipulated. He didn't feel like he'd been manipulated at all. He hadn't done a bad thing. Watson had said it himself. He _saved _The Man. It was obvious from what now. Moriarty had threatened him, most likely with something bigger than his life. It had probably started with an offer, which Watson refused of course, and then it became violent. When he found out that Sherlock had his phone, Moriarty sent him to retrieve the information. Then where was Watson now? Surely Moriarty hadn't gotten him. He wouldn't tell Mycroft about his worry. His brother didn't understand. It wasn't a trick. The Man wasn't controlling him. He was screaming for help and Sherlock had responded.

"We have John Watson in custody. He still has too much information for us to let him go." Sherlock knew that he wasn't safe with Mycroft. He wasn't safe with anyone. Anyone but him. He didn't have to ask Mycroft to bring him along, his brother would have dragged him along regardless to face down the man who had beaten him. Sherlock would admit to that. In a way, he had been beaten, but not in the way Mycroft thought. Winning meant saving The Man completely.

His brother was as melodramatic as ever. Watson was chained to the table by his wrist, though Sherlock knew he was use to it, but at least the office was comfortable and warm. The older man frowned apologetically when he spotted the younger Holmes. His assumptions were right. Mycroft had no reason to do this to him. His life had been on the line and possibly even more than that. There wasn't a lot of personal information on The Man, but everyone had someone to poke at.

"Thanks to you, Doctor John Watson, all of our planning has gone down the drain. You weren't alone in this, though. We can thank the rest of it to Sherlock." Mycroft smiled bitterly at his brother. Sherlock turned away to face into the fireplace.

"Are you going to punish me, little posh prince?" The Man rattled his binds a little. "Torture me? Do you think that's such a good idea?" He teased.

"Well, you see, that depends." He set the phone down on the table, just out of the sub's reach.

"If you're cooperative, then maybe we'll just let you go."

"But you won't." Watson responded pointedly. Mycroft's silence answered it. They wouldn't let him go. They couldn't let him go. Whether he cooperated or not, they would kill him. He had information that couldn't be let free.

"You could just destroy it." He offered, shrugging and causing his chains to wrinkle.

"We could." Mycroft agreed. "But there's a lot of stuff on this device, isn't there?" The Man smiled a 'yes'. "We need that information."

"Why would I do that?"

"He's being threatened, Mycroft." Sherlock added in heavily. "Between you and this 'other', he's better off not saying anything. If he tells you, they will kill him. If he doesn't tell you, you will kill him, just more humanely." There was always a way out, though.

"As brilliant as always. I am at an impasse, little Posh Prince. As much as I would like to help you," The Man reached out as far as his cuffs would let him, patting the table instead of the hand he couldn't touch. "I just can't. I would rather die."

"Your sister." Mycroft nodded. The Man frowned.

"Don't hurt her. She doesn't have anything to do with this. I haven't spoken to her in years."

"Unlock the phone." He instructed again. Watson sat back in his chair; distraught, disheveled, and anxious. He wouldn't speak, though. Mycroft was a dangerous man, the most dangerous perhaps, and yes, he was cold, but he had mercy. Sherlock could still win. He stood, approaching the table and offhandedly took the phone from between them. The Man watched him suspiciously.

"You can't be blamed if I solve it." Moriarty would be pleased if nothing else.

"What are you talking about?" Watson insisted sharply. The worry was evident in his tone.

"This was never your game, John." Sherlock assured him. "You happened upon a little too much information and were a little too clever, but it was never your game to play. Moriarty used you, but he never expected sentiment to be involved."

"Sentiment? You don't honestly think I loved you, do you?" Now he was just lying. "Why? Because you're the great Sherlock Holmes? Because you didn't hit me?" His voice was firm with denial but those eyes, they were curious in a way most eyes were not. The ever changing pale color that Sherlock had never entirely know what to call. He knew now the name of that color; the end of the universe.

"No. Because I took your pulse." Sherlock turned the phone around.

I am SHER locked.

The Man smiled in earnest. Sherlock allowed a small tug of the lips.

"I guess I've been beaten. What now? A cell? A grave? Maybe you'll just let me go and Moriarty will take care of me. He's very unpredictable."

"I'll take care of him." The younger Holmes said swiftly. He hadn't won just yet.

"What?" Watson said in disbelief.

"Sherlock, no." Mycroft said firmly.

"What could the harm be, really? As I've said before; he is harmless. He is the opposite of dangerous. He is – _submissive_. He would have never been in this situation if it hadn't been for Moriarty." He explained with a renewed vigor.

"No. He wouldn't be in this situation if he didn't have top secret information that could bring Britain to its knees."

"That's while he can be my live in assistant. Moriarty forced him to do it, he didn't help him do it. He did convince us both he was dead for several months."

"Are you actually trying to tell me you've fallen in _love_ with this man?"

"Certainly not. I do admit, though, that I enjoy the thought of having someone follow me around and tell me how brilliant I am." Sherlock exchanged smiles with The Man before they both turned their attention to his brother. Mycroft scowled at him.

"Fine." He agreed between grit teeth. "But I warn you, Doctor Watson. Step out of line and you will disappear."

"We both know how well I disappear." The Man smirked.

"We will need to know where you are at all times."

"An anklet?"

"Precisely."

"I can live with that."

"And-" Mycroft added sharply. "Monthly reports on my baby brother. It will prevent anything like this from happening again."

o-o-o

The Man, or as Sherlock would know him better as simply John, was fitted with an industrial tracking anklet and released into the wild. He'd won. He'd cracked the code, the heart, and escaped with him alive. Moriarty wouldn't be getting to him any time soon, though the same couldn't be said for his sister. They could deal with that when the problem arose, though. He was sure he earned his reward now. The quiet ride home in the back of the tinted window car left Sherlock thinking. John examined his ankle but didn't seem to distain it completely. He would have some trouble explaining that to clients. The spare room upstairs would go to John now. Mrs. Hudson would come to like him soon enough.

John made a small stop to gather his things (and most likely leave a note assuring his assistant he was alright) before returning to his new home at 221b Bakerstreet with his new flat mate. Sherlock was content with the man making himself at home. He remained in the living room, cleaning up the remains of the case. He'd be back to taking cases as soon as Lestrade needed him. Lestrade probably wasn't going to take too well to John.

It wasn't until the sun was finally peeking above the buildings did John re-emerge from the bedroom. Sherlock watched his reflection in the mirror as the man approached him from behind and placed the crop in his lap.

"I found this in the kitchen. Ready for that free trial now, Master Holmes?" John nuzzled the skin beneath his ear, breathing heated breath against his throat.

"Absolutely."


	2. No Instructions Needed

The Man  
>The Banker In The Yellow Blindfold<br>Part One: No Instructions Needed

Notes: No smut in this chapter, so sorry. It'll appear soon. I promise! Also: The intro chapter was ridiculously long, but the rest of the chapters will be posted in parts to prevent this.

"_Let me make some deductions about you. You'd be surprised how easily I can read people after working a job like this. Sexually anyways." _

_First, you'll test the waters. You have to make sure I hold your interest, after all._

It was almost as though Sherlock was having second thoughts, though John knew that wasn't it. He'd been doing this job for a long time and it was something he was immensely good at. If there was anything people liked, it was being in charge. John could let him be in charge. He could let them break his skin with whips and teeth and nails all while not making a noise. It wasn't sexual most of the time and John knew that he actually helped people in a very unorthodox way.

It had to stop now. He couldn't put Henry in danger, or his family. John came across all kinds of things in his work and it wasn't until Moriarty threatened his life did he realize how dangerous his little collection was. He would be more careful. The little plastic box on his ankle assured him that he was relatively safe, but the rest of him told him that Moriarty didn't care if Mycroft Holmes came after him. It was a game they played, the Holmes and Moriarty, and John was worried what he had gotten himself into.

Standing beside Sherlock was probably the stupidest thing he could have done but, despite everything, John couldn't refuse the fact that his heart lunged a little every time he thought of the brilliant man. Under normal circumstances, he didn't allow his clients any sexual activity, but Sherlock was hardly a client. He doubted Sherlock knew the hard specifics of his work, especially considering everyone was a little different, but it was clear Sherlock needed this way more than any of his clients before had. He was clearly stressed and every part of him was screaming to let go. That was okay, though. Some people just needed help letting go and Sherlock needed a lot of it.

John slipped his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and abandoned them in the doorway with a skilled, graceful step. He glanced over his shoulder with his quiet, completely nonaggressive beige eyes to watch his new roommate follow him. His slim, pale fingers belonged around the dark handle of the crop. He offered a small arch of the back where a few of his old scars were still fading away. John was very good at hiding, after all, even from his most obsessed clients.

"Sherlock," he called casually, bringing the man's attention back to his face. John wasn't entirely sure what he'd been looking at. Sherlock was so hard to read even when his pale blue eyes stared without reserve.

"Naturally, a safeword is needed." He might actually need it this time, if he got the little detective to let go. John wasn't sure he could with just one session, though. He was great, but Sherlock had some serious self preservation built around himself. The taller man simply nodded at him and John could already see him thinking. In this situation, unfortunately for the man, it wasn't what he needed to be doing. This wasn't a problem that needed to be solved, but no amount of words would make Sherlock understand that.

"Mm. Vacation Cameos." John decided without the need for confirmation; he knew the consultant was listening to him; Sherlock didn't 'zone out.'

"Then you will _stop, _Sherlock," he said with a sudden firmness that gave away his discomfort with the situation. Relationships like these required a lot of trust and the only thing worse than standing by Sherlock was trusting Sherlock. It wasn't that Sherlock was untrustworthy, it was simply that some people didn't know what to do with trust and could easily cause pain where it wasn't intended. In a profession with constantly changing partners, John could always rely to the larger Henry to subdue anyone that couldn't follow the rules. There was no one around if Sherlock suddenly wasn't so Sherlock. He turned eyes on the taller male to make sure he was understood and Sherlock watched him with an unwavering stare. Someone else might have thought he hadn't heard a word of it, but John knew better. Sherlock heard everything.

"Good." Extra effort would be put into his spare escape route, just to make sure his safety was secured. With that understood, John watched patiently for some sort of instruction. He wasn't sure if Sherlock knew what he was doing, but unless he was asked, John wouldn't dare try to help him. He didn't have to wait long and as John already knew, Sherlock was very direct.

"Get on the bed on your stomach," Sherlock instructed and John followed blindly. He crawled onto the bed with every delicate arch and movement that came naturally to him now. He laid his head down on the crisp pillow and placed his hands neutrally at either side of his head. From this position it was hard to keep a firm eye on his new client, but that wasn't exactly new. What was new, however, was the room John wasn't familiar with and the soft steps of the detective, giving him absolutely no idea where he was, let alone what he was doing. It was a small thrill, he discovered, to actually be completely blind to his partner. Sherlock was something new to him and it had been a long time since he'd had something new.

A few moments went by when nothing happened and then cool, soft fingers were on his shoulder. Pale fingers traced over the webbing of his war scar with the uttermost gentleness. This wasn't part of it, though. Sherlock was examining the wound with a completely different eye to satisfy his own curiosity. John allowed him to. He hadn't known Sherlock long, but he knew one thing to be true. Sherlock was curios. Why was he curious about John? John wasn't exactly sure yet, but he was glad for it. For reasons unknown, or at least none he would admit to, John felt something for the strange detective and he had ever since Sherlock had first appeared in his business.

Then came the testing. The cool leather piece brushed against the back of his neck, caressing the skin there before traveling down. Sherlock traced a few of his fading scars but for now, didn't offer the slightest bit of force or pain. John's spine was traced with the triangular bit but he didn't respond in any way. Sherlock was a little more tricky to deal with than most of his clients. Usually he could tell what they wanted after minimum amount of conversation and respond accordingly without appearing as though he were faking. Exaggerating, really. John would have to keep Sherlock's attention without knowing what he had caught him with in the first place. He deemed the best way to do that was not try to 'exaggerate' at all.

The first strike didn't bother John in the least as it struck against his leg. He didn't flinch and it didn't string, but it wasn't that hard of a hit, either. He wasn't fragile and they both knew that, but Sherlock was testing the waters. Most people did, just to get a feel of the new sensation or the new sub. Sherlock needed more than that and John could take a lot more. The next strike came at least thirty seconds later by John's count and was much firmer than the first. The leather made an audible noise against his back and while it stung a little more, John still made no significant response. Then, as if Sherlock suddenly realized that most of his clients actually left scars, the intensity increased.

The next hit tore through his back and the pain bloomed along the line with only a split second of delay. It didn't break the skin but just barely. John's fingers twitched against the sheeting and he sighed a shuddery breath, but it wasn't a cry or a sound by any proper means. Following the hit was a pregnant pause. Sherlock had all the information he needed, then, to decide whether he wanted to continue or not.

_I will. Then you'll hesitate. You won't know what to do. No. You'll want to do everything at once. You'll focus on one thing, though. There's plenty of time for everything else later. The crop; it's clearly your favorite. _

Sherlock did. He wanted to continue but that wasn't surprising at all. Even when John's eyes were off of him, everything about him was tame. He was clearly more than capable of taking the abuse, though Sherlock doubted he would be in this line of work if he couldn't. The Man was clearly smart enough to realize that faking it with him wouldn't cut it. If it wasn't an automatic response, what was John trying to get out of Lestrade by faking distress during their last meeting? Another client?

Sherlock found his attention was more focused than it usually was, but he also knew that wasn't unusual when he was thinking or interacting with John. All of his attention was required when he was dealing with the smaller male, after all, otherwise he might very well miss the little trigger and warning signs he sported. John had mixed feelings about not being able to see him, but he wouldn't try to turn his head. It was a mixture of not trusting Sherlock and still recovering from being threatened by Moriarty.

The back was the ideal canvas for striking, however, and it was clear Sherlock wasn't the only one to think so. It was probably because John had a preference to it, as well, if his previous flourished movements of his hips and back was anything to go by. It was curious, though. If John usually pretended to lower his threshold for pain, why did he have so many scars? How much pressure and strength did it actually require to leave a mark? Bruises would surely form quicker and disappear easier, but Sherlock drew his question up to find out how much force he needed to put behind his riding crop to leave the sort of scars John had sported when they first met. That image was filed away neatly in Sherlock's memory and it would likely never leave.

He formed a rhythm, the only rest coming from the need to draw his arm back before each strike. Steadily, Sherlock increased the intensity of each hit. John clenched his hands around the sheets and his toes curled, but he didn't make a sound or even seem that bothered by the systematic blows. Nerve damage due to repetitive strikes would cause a need more stimulation to earn the desired effect. Finally, the pale skin gave way under his leather weapon. Sherlock was awarded with a small hiss of a moan from John and a small line of blood over the length of his welted back.

John definitely had some form of nerve damage, raising his threshold for pain greatly and most likely giving him the desire for more and more stimulation, in this case it was clearly pain. It required too much force to break the skin with a blunt object for John to have so many scars. With the crop, at least. More experimentation necessary. The next clear question was to find out where John's limen ended. The man was clearly already aroused, but Sherlock had expected as much considering the basis of John's occupation.

_You'll probably get a little distracted at first, which is fine. You won't be Sherlock if you didn't get distracted by your curiosity. You'll make it back around to the task at hand, most likely on mistake, but I'll take what I can get. _

That was one experiment out of the way. John only allowed himself to shift mildly on the bed, currently working without Sherlock's instruction. Sherlock didn't yet understand that John would follow any verbal instruction, but most new clients made the same mistake. Unlike them, Sherlock would discover this quickly and use it to his advantage. John would clear things up later when the unavoidable arose and Sherlock attempted to talk him into doing something outside of bed.

After Sherlock's initial finding of just how hard he had to hit to leave a scar, he didn't draw any more blood. Instead, he seemed to be searching for more sensitive spots on his back, thighs, and shoulders. It was still organized and overthought, however, and John knew he would have to patiently wait it out. Sherlock wouldn't get frustrated or angry, but instead, he would change tactics until he received the desired result. The crop brushed over his new gash again and again and John squirmed.

Much to The Man's dismay, Sherlock instantly was aware of his weaker, more tender spot. The same gash Sherlock had made only moments earlier was swiftly turned into a long, gapping, nerve worthy of all of the consultant's attention. The crop wasn't as rough, however, only gracing over the edges of the deep red spot. The gentleness was almost worse in comparison to the predictable strikes. John groaned at the back of his throat.

"More," the sub answered his strike with an airy noise of wanton need. "Please Sherlock." In all honesty, John hadn't expected Sherlock to give in on the first session. He appeared so cold and shielded off, but thankfully, it turned out he was right about Sherlock. The man wasn't nearly as emotionally unattached as he lead people to believe. The collection of following strikes lost their systematic rhythm by just enough to be noticeable. Then the power behind them fluctuated. John was a little surprised.

John began to move even more. Each hit drove him to arch into the leather bit and every run over his open wound left him yelling louder than before until Sherlock had him bucking and screaming. This wasn't an unusual occurrence for John. The completely free and wild lashings bit at his pale back and thighs and left welts and tears with no clear pattern and the overstimulation was thrilling. Sherlock could seriously hurt him. Sherlock might as well have been a stranger. Who was to say he wouldn't try to maim him? Who was to say John could stop him indefinitely? It was dangerous and John got off on it.

More on point, Sherlock was letting go in pure, uncontained violence.

_And finally -finally- you'll stop thinking. Tonight if I'm lucky._

Sherlock was surprised to discover that the way John moved was intoxicating. He was interesting, he already knew that, but this was a completely new experience. Every move he made was erratic and unpredictable like Watson himself. He made the mistake of thinking the sub was harmless when he faced away and somewhere trying to think of a way of catalog his responses and forming and incoherent thought, he stopped thinking. It wasn't sudden or quick, but his realization was.

Before he knew it, he was striking the bloody back with no reserve, his mind far away from his task. Then his mind was purely on the task and drawn in purely by the hypnotizing submission that just wavered from John in both the form of verbal begging and compliant movements. How could he be so submissive and still so obviously not? If the army man wanted to, he could very easily snap around and stop him by force, if it was necessary. Sherlock was sure even that would be submissive.

John was muddling his senses again. Why could he do that when no one else could stop Sherlock in his tracks like that. It was problematic. There were only a few times where he had gotten a good look at the man who, by all scientific means, loved him. They were only the smallest slivers of information, though and none of it was enough to actually make sense of anything. In fact, they raised more questions than they answered and John seemed to just smile at him. He was being taunted and goaded, clearly. John was good at that.

Why though? Why would John do that? He wasn't asking for help, even if he might have been when Moriarty was after him. He was safe. Not only was he physically safe, he was mentally secure. John didn't strive to hide anything and Sherlock knew if he asked the right questions, he would easily know everything about The Man, about John. Those questions were complicated and likely, not even questions. Which was illogical, but not incorrect. John would clearly answer a statement.

What did he want? Sherlock suddenly realized how vulnerable he had set himself up to be. John could want anything, be anyone, and here he was in his flat, quietly whispering things in his ear to do things Sherlock wouldn't have even thought of doing before. He didn't like that. He didn't like people trying to control him. He didn't like not knowing. He didn't like people knowing he didn't know. He hated being used. He hated people using him.

He hated being abused by idiots that didn't understand! He hated being treated as if he didn't know what they said about and what those things meant. He hated people thinking he was a tool. He hated that people were so easily scared away. He hated that no one appreciated fully what he did. He hated that some people thought he needed to be protected. He hated that some people thought he needed to be attacked.

Sherlock swung the riding crop again and again in a violent frenzy. He was angry at John and everyone else, but John was the only one in his sights. He ran out of breath and paused in his assault of the little blonde man to catch his breath. It was only then did he suddenly realize that his mind had gone dormant. What was he doing? This was illogical. He could hit John all he wanted and it wouldn't actually gain him anything. Sherlock supposed that it was possible he felt minutely better. He pushed his hair back with his free hand and examined the quivering mass trying to collect his breath as well.

John's back was in ribbons. It was easy to see how he managed to collect so many scars now. There was something about John, Sherlock was swiftly coming to realize. Something that brought out the worst in everyone by giving them power.

"Are you okay?"

For a split second, Sherlock thought he'd spoken without realizing simply due to the backwards nature of the question. John was asking _him _if he was okay? John shifted a little, weakly bringing himself onto his knees and drawing his shoulders towards his chest to stretch the broken skin on his back. Beige eyes glanced at the taller male and Sherlock offered a curt, calm nod.

"Good." John sighed casually, placing his feet off the side of the bed with only a mild wince and using his shirt to dry off as much of his back as he could reach. "How do you feel, then?"

_And then you'll feel so much better. So much calmer and collected_.

Sherlock wasn't sure there was a clear answer to that. A tad unconvinced, if anything, and maybe a little annoyed for allowing himself to be sidetracked. John's question wasn't clear enough to know if that was the answer he was looking for, however. John seemed to understand this and went on.

"I mean, your brother did just rub your nose in your failure like a bad dog," he murmured nonchalantly. Sherlock wasn't all that bothered by it. That was new. He explored the feeling further in his own mind before coming to the conclusion that he didn't care all that much that Mycroft had, essentially, done just that. He'd come out the clear winner, but on any normal occasion, Sherlock knew he would have been bitter at his brother for a little bit longer. John chuckled lightheartedly.

"You did quite the job. I'm going to get cleaned off," the smaller man informed as he carefully picked up his discarded clothing. He plucked the piece of paper out of his trouser pocket and gladly handed the folded piece of paper over to Sherlock like a well deserved cheque.

"I obviously haven't had time to write anything else or change anything," John answered smugly. Sherlock watched him leave the room in nothing but his now slightly blood stained pants and waited for the sound of the bathroom sink running before unfolding the man's 'prediction'. As if anyone were actually possible of predicting anything about him.

Except one John Watson apparently.

One John Watson who was foreign and new to him. Sherlock was sure that even if he did try to pull out now, the hooks of interest John had so slyly thrown into him would only bring him crawling indignantly back. How tedious.

"Come help me put salve on, Sherlock."

Quite tedious.


End file.
